The attacker vaulted sideways with the agility of an Olympic gymnast, cleanly evading the plasma bolt that Lyra fired. The drones however, blasted the ground beneath his feet. The swordsman cried out, his voice surprisingly high and clear. He stumbled and fell, losing his grip on the sword. Immediately he rolled and regained his feet, but as he did so his cowl fell back. It revealed the face of a man, but it was impossible to determine his age or much other information as his face was caked with grime, his hair matted and similarly filthy.
As he stood and drew a knife from his robe, this roughly hewn from some greenish, chitinous substance, his robe hung loose. Beneath it was a tunic that was in similarly poor state to the robe. It had several plates crudely sewn onto it, most of the same material as the dagger. Two plates were white and artificial like they had been taken from some pre-existing set of body armour, and one looking like it had been slashed at a high intensity cutting torch. The body beneath the tunic was emaciated, the frame of a man who was not used to eating well or often. The dagger and his free hand held in a defensive position, the man opened his jaws wide, bared his teeth and let loose a feral snarl at the group, but he snapped his gaze from one opponent to another feverishly, and his eyes which were like pieces of quartz in the dirty face, betrayed only fear.